Back into Bushwick, back on my bullshit
40 year old awnings, 24 year old self indulgence
Moved for the 200% increase in greenery
Now I step to sidewalks phosphorescent in obscenity
All built like it’s Michelin, the star or the tire
Sipping $7 Bud Lights zipped up in bar attire
Our democracy’s in crisis and I dollar vote for second chances
Vamonos, the oligarch advances
Why you sitting through the seance for a ghost in the shell?
Why you sifting through your stories for the worst you can tell?
Why you pissed at passings littler that you were at birth?
Why you twist my words so literal, you missed what I’m worth
I’m passing my charisma checks, got cadence in spades
All my innards in a pickle jar on flagrant display
All the mysteries of change blamed on a range of miscellany
I eat cajun fries and ketchup on my rainiest days
Planning every purchase til I'm certainly paid
I am more than the sum of all my cleverest nicknames
And you could build a four-course meal from my naivete
Stains of pizza on my face, man the stations, chaos looms in
Places like the forums or the folds of my wallet
I hollow my goggles, gawk at the honest discrete solids
I’m talking to so often, skeleton with a face
When the obvious comes calling it’s impossible to replace
Periodically compelled into cleaning frenzies
Sensing days until my laundry basket comes and upends me
I stutter most when I’m afraid of speaking clearly
Finding rhymed associations signed in serif insincerely
Read the imprint of the newspaper pressed in Silly Putty
That’s what happens when you compromise your art for fucking anybody
Picking at my beard in passing, nail polish and skinny jeans
Wrestling with the traditional perspicuous infinities